A Matchlight Argument
by NightlySnow
Summary: Alfred has a phobia of Arthur and flames, an aversion that can be traced back to the fateful loss of his first White House in the War of 1812. When he isn't given enough time to prepare for Arthur's surprise visit, what is the poor, flustered American supposed to do about the copious amount of matches and lighters that are still around? UKUS oneshot inspired off of a head canon.


Bonjour! A oneshot is here. I know, it'll be my first one in a long while. But I'm excited, this'll be good. :3 I hope you guys enjoy the fluff and the ridiculousness of the entire thing.

_Disclaimer: I don't own the Hetalia franchise. Yeah, shocking, I'm sure. -_-_

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**A Matchlight Argument**_  
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_"And a special thanks for not burning up the whole ship. Including yourself, you daft bum-rag."  
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**―Scott Westerfield_, Leviathan_**

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Alfred had a routine before Arthur came to visit that he always performed.

To start with, there was grocery shopping. He knew that Arthur's taste buds were fond of tea. Exceptionally so, and though Alfred didn't make it a habit to keep tea in his pantries, he was always sure to go out and get some for England. They were different flavors, and he knew that he exasperated Arthur with how reliable he could be in forgetting the Englishman's favorite tea flavor.

The second main task was making sure that the house was clean. England was a stickler for neatness and Alfred was… well, not. So, usually a day or so before Arthur's scheduled arrival, he'd scour through his house and rub and scrub and dust and pat every inch of the place, ensuring that everything was in tip top order and shape. He didn't know why he put so much effort into impressing a man whom he'd fought an entire war to get away from, but he could always be counted upon to do it.

The third one was putting away some of the old pictures that he had of Arthur and himself in a secret place in his house where there was no chance England could ever find them. There were portraits from the 1700s, grainy images from WWI and WWII. Photos from the World's Fair, images of him in England with his grumpy old companion. Not all of them were on the wall, but a fair enough amount to garner some embarrassment for Alfred if Arthur ever got the opportunity to see them.

And the fourth, but certainly the most important thing, was to remove every single thing that could possibly be used to procure fire from the house. He would take extra precautions to ensure that the matches were gone, either in a neighbor's hands or dug in the dirt of his backyard. The fireplace doused, the gas cut off for it so that Arthur couldn't possibly use it for anything even pertaining to flame. The stove was to be manned by Alfred and Alfred only, something easily managed as Alfred was always eagerly volunteering himself to cook meals when England was a guest in his home. Any lighters or other things, whether they were from WWII or from the local gas station, Alfred put away. And when England did arrive, Alfred made it his habit to pat down the older man before he allowed him in the house, to avoid any future infernos.

This irrational fear of England and fire wasn't so irrational, not in America's opinion. He actually had a perfectly justified reason, in his mind anyway, to not let Arthur within five yards of a match. England, during the Revolutionary War, had managed to burn down half of New York City, and then during the War of 1812, he had taken the liberty to burn America's first White House to the ground.

So, obviously, America took extreme precautions when it came to combustion and England. Plus, he'd seen the man during WWII. That was a scary thing to come to terms with, the inferno of flickering light and cackles of ridiculously pleased with himself laughter still haunting Alfred to this day.

Arthur never really noticed any of the four steps just listed. Though he did know that Alfred was messy, he just assumed that it was the duty of a host to clean his house a little. If he knew just how much 'a little' meant to Alfred, though he no doubt did, considering portion size in America, he would be a bit more impressed with the effort the boy went through for him. The tea was a common staple over in Great Britain, so he never really thought about why Alfred had it, even if it would be a little odd, considering the Boston Tea Party that Alfred had thrown in the years leading up to the Revolution. And obviously, he wouldn't notice the missing photos because he'd never actually been around when they were up. The only thing that really grated on him was that there seemed to be no fire in Alfred's house.

He'd managed to sneak a match in once, hiding it in his mess of a hair as Alfred did his routine door check. Once inside, he chose a piece of sandpaper that Alfred had stuffed in a drawer to help him light the stick. Alfred, upon walking out and seeing Arthur standing there with a live flame in his hands, had a heart attack and poured his entire glass of water on Arthur's head. Needless to say, the next time Arthur visited, there was no sandpaper in the house either.

Alfred had camped out in a nest of blankets, a bowl of cheesy poofs on his lap and the TV screen flickering with his favorite movie ever, _The Avengers_, when a knock cracked loudly against his door. Peering owlishly at the door, the only light there was in the room glossing over his glasses, flickering from the flame in the fireplace with a comforting warmth. A second knock sounded and Alfred groaned loudly and irritably. Putting his bowl to the side, he stood from his couch, shuffling through the soda cans and candy wrappers that littered the floor in a second carpet, his blankets held like a hood and cowl around himself. He reached his front door and pulled it open, the sound of the movie screaming through the space.

Arthur was on the other side, and Alfred's heart stopped. "Ar-Arthur!" he said, dropping his blanket and positioning himself flusteredly in the doorway, hoping that he could come up with someway to fix this problem. He was wearing a pair of boxers and a grungy t-shirt advertising the state of California, his glasses had smudges, and it had been a couple of days since he'd had a bath.

"What has you at my doorstep?" he asked, nerves leaking into his voice, making it waver in pitch.

Arthur appraised his appearance with one raised, judgemental bushy eyebrow. "Why on Earth are you dressed like that, Alfred? Don't you have some real clothes to change into? Good God, it's two in the afternoon." He said, lifting his wrist to his face to doublecheck on the wristwatch adorning the smaller bones.

Alfred shrugged. "Er, I didn't know I'd be getting a visitor!" he laughed awkwardly, holding the door closed against Arthur's insistent pressing.

"Oh for God's sake, you wanker, open the door already. It's freezing out here," he huffed, throwing his entire weight against the barrier. Unfortunately for him, Alfred was a good bit stronger than most countries, so there wasn't too much progress made in that respect. But it was cold outside. Snow was suffocating the grass, trees, and bushes, garnishing the sidewalk and front steps with its perfume.

After a bit of arguing back and forth, as was customary, Alfred finally, reluctantly, let Arthur in.

And boy did he regret it afterwards. As soon as the Englishman stepped foot inside of the house, he froze, his eyes sweeping over the carnal wreckage of the room before him. There was a small path that Alfred had cut walking to the door not five minutes ago, but other than that,you couldn't see the floor.

America was surprised that England didn't just keel over and die right there. Instead, the man's hand tightened around his suitcase handle and he turned, slowly, to face the younger country behind him.

"Alfred." He said slowly, a look of impending death in his eyes, "What is this?"

Alfred had started to slowly raise the blanket up so that it covered everything from his eyes down. Only those nervous, butterfly peepers were left peering out. "Home decoration…?" he suggested carefully, yelping as a fist came out of nowhere and landed squarely on top of his head. The fists kept coming, raining down on his shoulders and chest with a blasted surety all their own. God was raining hell upon him for his past few days of sloth, that was for sure.

Begging for a respite, he tried in vain to shield himself from the angry fists, but it was hopeless. Arthur was on a rampage.

"I raised you better than this!" the Englishman cried, more insults streaming from his mouth, British colloquialisms that Alfred was not familiar with whatsoever.

When the raining of punches was finally over and done with, Alfred reappeared from behind his hands. His blanket was in a rumpled mess at his feet, and he could already feel bruises blossoming on every inch of skin that Arthur had hit.

But his concern quickly skipped from himself to the way that Arthur was looking at the fireplace. His heat stopped, and he rushed over, quickly turning the flame off and storing the little key that would revive it in a locked drawer.

Arthur looked irritated at Alfred's little action, not saying anything else and just tugging his suitcase through the trash littering the floor to find his customary room on the second level of the house, where all bedrooms back in the 1700s generally were.

While Arthur was up clearing out his room, which probably wasn't that ruined considering that the only other person who would have slept in it since England's last visit was Prussia, who sometimes came over here to have a good time, since he wasn't a country anymore and didn't have anything better to do, Alfred hurriedly dug through his cabinets, trying desperately to find any small amount of tea that he could scavenge. But there was none to be found. Though Arthur would complain about how America didn't have an electric kettle, he was always generally content with just a cuppa at breakfast, at lunch, midway through the day, and right before bed.

Things were going downhill fast, as he realized that a lot of those old pictures of he and Arthur were still on the walls, items that would light with fire were still about, his house was a wreck, and he had no tea. The four items that were the most important things in the world for him to accomplish weren't done.

Dragging himself to the sofa, he accepted his fate. When Arthur came down and sat next to him, messing with a lighter, Alfred reached over to try to tug it from England's gasp. But it wasn't working, the smaller man was hanging on it with the grim force of death.

Swearing, Alfred tugged furiously, desperately. Nothing was changing, Arthur still had a hold of it. Finally, he managed to get it away.

"No touchy," he said finally, setting the lighter on the opposite side of the couch from Arthur.

That was probably the last straw.

"'No touchy'?" mocked Arthur, his voice raising in his rage, "You can't tell me what to do, Alfred, I am your goddamn superior, and you will tell me what in the hell is going on in this blasted house of yours," he ordered, sitting moodily with his arms crossed in front of him.

Alfred swallowed, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. He didn't like being cornered like this. "Alright, dude, but don't freak. I normally clean up before you get here. I hide the matches, and lighters, and other flamey things, and I get tea for you. I even…" he sighed, looking awkwardly at the still moving TV screen, "I even take down pictures that I normally have hanging up of the two of us in centuries past, alright?" he grumbled, finally getting it all of his chest.

Arthur sat there for a moment in complete and utter silence. "Can I have the lighter?" he asked finally.

"Hell no!" snapped Alfred in response, covetously gripping the offending object in his hand.

"Well why the bloody hell not!?" snapped Arthur, throwing his hands frustratedly into the air.

"Because I won't have you burning anything else down while you're over here, you dumbass!"

Arthur quieted after that, contemplating that response. "You can't possibly still be thinking about that 1812 thing." He said finally, giving Alfred an almost disappointed look.

"Well," sniffed the American haughtily, "in fact I am. So back off, buck-o. No fire for you."

Arthur took that as a challenge, leaning slowly forward, his face drawing closer to Alfred's, watching with a pleased tilt to his head as the American leaned hesitantly back. "Oh, I don't know about that," he murmured, his breath ghosting over Al's lips. His companion shuddered, closing his eyes and slowly blinking them open. A pale hand removed the glasses with the quick skill of someone who's used to performing the action.

There was continued irresolution, hands moving up to feel along lines and slopes of jaws and noses, shapes and curves of lips and eyes, and the soft individuality of hair.

Arthur took the initiative, sinking his head down so that his lips were pressing along the cheeks and nose of Alfred's before kissing him. It was Alfred who pushed the kiss a step further, parting lips to give tongues leeway.

With that simple action, the intensity increased, like the waves on cliff walls, hands were running greedily through the previously lightly touched hair, teeth clicking as their kisses grew sloppier. It had been a while since they'd seen one another, and though Arthur complained, he was glad to see Alfred actually in his natural habitat. This was Alfred, not the one he'd seen every other time he'd visited. This was the man he'd fallen in love with. This man who sits on his sofa in batman boxers and California t-shirts, watching a movie about superheroes changing the world, surrounded by remnants of past movie nights doing the exact same thing.

As Alfred was eventually pushed back onto the sofa, Arthur resting on top of him, the bowl of cheesy poofs, or Cheetos, as normal people called them, crashed to the floor, spreading their junky delicacy all over the already crowded rug. The sound didn't even bother the two countries, who were now very thoroughly engrossed in some activities of their own. The lighter slid from Alfred's hand, and dropped between the cushions, doubtless to be found on some random occasion four years later.

Arthur's hands, dexterous and nimble, made quick work of Alfred's shirt. Alfred had a bit more layers to get off of his Englishman, but he made do, peeling and unbuttoning until eventually his counterpart was bare-chested above him.

"Never lie to me again," said Arthur in his ear during a break for breath, running his teeth along the shell of Al's ear.

Al's lips were too busy to respond.

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So, what are we thinking? Good? Horrible? Tell me your thoughts! I'd love to read your opinions.

Au revoir, mes amis! Happy way early Holidays. xD


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